Page 8 of Courting Catherine

  At the opposite end of the table, Lilah smiled. “Just tell us what you see, honey.”

  “A necklace,” C.C. heard herself say. “Two tiers of emeralds flanked by diamonds. Beautiful, bril­liant.” The gleam hurt her eyes. “She's wearing them, but I can't see her face. Oh, she's so unhappy.”

  “The Calhoun necklace,” Coco breathed. “So, it's true.”

  Then, as if a sigh passed through the air, the can­dles flickered again, then ran straight and true. A log fell in the grate.

  “Weird,” Amanda said when her aunt's hand fell limply from hers. “I'll fix the fiTe.”

  “Honey.” Suzanna studied C.C. with as much con­cern as curiosity. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” C.C. cleared her throat “Sure.” She shot Trent a quick look. “I guess the storm got to me.”

  Coco lifted a hand to her breast and patted her speeding heart. “I think we could all use a nice glass of brandy.” She rose, more shaken than she wanted to admit, and walked to the buffet.

  “Aunt Coco,” C.C. began. “What's the Calhoun necklace?”

  “The emeralds.” She passed the snifters. “There was a legend that's been handed down through the family. You know part of it, how Bianca fell in love with another man, and died tragically. I suppose it's time I told you the rest of it.”

  “You kept a secret?” Amanda grinned as she swirled her drink. “Aunt Coco, you amaze me.”

  “I wanted to wait for the right time. It seems it's now.” She took her seat again, warming the brandy between her hands. “Rumor was that Bianca's lover was an artist, one of the many who came to the island in those days. She would go to meet him when Fergus was away from the house, which was often. Theirs was not precisely an arranged marriage, but the next thing to it. She was years younger than he, and ap­parently quite beautiful. Since Fergus destroyed all pictures of her after her death, there's no way of knowing for sure.”

  “Why?” Suzanna asked. “Why would he do that?”

  “Grief perhaps.” Coco shrugged.

  “Rage, more likely,” Lilah put in.

  “In any case.” Coco paused to sip. “He destroyed all reminders of her, and the emeralds were lost. He had given Bianca the necklace when she gave birth to Ethan, her eldest son.” She glanced at Trent. “My father. He was just a child at the time of his mother's death, so the events were never very clear in his mind. But his nanny, who had been fiercely loyal to Bianca, would tell him stories about her. And those he re­membered. She didn't care for the necklace, but wore it often.”

  “As a kind of punishment,” Lilah put in. “And a kind of talisman.” She smiled at her aunt “Oh, I've known about the necklace for years. I've seen it—just as C.C. did tonight.” She lifted the brandy to her lips. “There are earrings to match. Emerald teardrops, like the stone in the center of the bottom tier.”

  “You're making that up,” Amanda accused her, and Lilah merely moved her shoulders.

  “No, I'm not.” She smiled at C.C. “Am I?”

  “No.” Uneasy, C.C. looked to her aunt. “What does all this mean?”

  “I'm not altogether sure, but I think the necklace is still important to Bianca. It was never seen after she died. Some believed Fergus threw it into the sea.”

  “Not on your life,” Lilah said. “The old man wouldn't have thrown a nickel into the sea, much less an emerald necklace.”

  “Well...” Coco didn't like to speak ill of an an­cestor, but she was forced to agree. “Actually, it would have been out of character. Grandpapa counted his pennies.”

  “He made Silas Marner look like a philanthro­pist,” Amanda put in. “So, what happened to it?”

  “That, my dear, is the mystery. My father's nanny told him that Bianca was going to leave Fergus, that she had packed a box, what the nanny called a trea­sure box. Bianca had secreted away what was most valuable to her.”

  “But she died instead,” C.C. murmured.

  “Yes. The legend is that the box, with its treasure, is hidden somewhere in the house.”

  “Our house?” Suzanna gaped at her aunt. “Do you really think there's some kind of treasure chest hidden around here for—what—eighty years, and no one's found it?”

  “It's a very big house,” Coco pointed out. “For all we know she might have buried it in the roses.”

  “If it existed in the first place,” Amanda mur­mured.

  “It existed.” Lilah sent a nod toward C.C. “And I think Bianca's decided it's time to find it.”

  When everyone began to talk at once, arguments and suggestions bouncing around the table, Trent raised a hand. “Ladies. Ladies,” he repeated, waiting for them to subside. “I realize that this is family busi­ness, but as I was invited to participate in this... experiment, I feel obligated to add a calming note. Legends are most often exaggerated and expanded over time. If there ever was a necklace, wouldn't it be more likely that Fergus sold it after the death of his wife?”

  “He couldn't sell it,” Lilah pointed out, “if he couldn't find it.”

  “Do any of you really think your great-grandfather buried treasure in the garden or hid it behind a loose stone?” One glance around the table told him that was precisely how they were thinking. Trent shook his head. “That kind of fairy tale's more suited for Alex and Jenny than for grown women.” He spread his hands. “You don't even know for certain if there was a necklace in the first place.”

  “But I saw it,” C.C. said, though it made her feel foolish.

  “You imagined it,” he corrected. “Think about it. A few minutes ago six rational adults were sitting around this table holding hands and calling up ghosts. All right as an odd sort of parlor game, but for anyone to actually believe in messages from the other-world...” He certainly wasn't going to add that for a moment, he'd felt something himself.

  “There's something appealing about a cynical, practical-minded man.” Lilah rose to open one of the drawers of the buffet and unearthed a pad and pencil. After coming over to kneel by C.C.'s chair, she began to sketch. “I certainly respect your opinion, but the fact is not only did the necklace exist, I'm certain it still does.”

  “Because of a nanny's bedtime stories?”

  She smiled at him. “No, because of Bianca.” She slid the pad toward C.C. “Is that what you saw to­night?”

  Lilah had always been a careless and clever artist. C.C. stared at the rough sketch of the necklace, two ornate and filigreed tiers studded with square-cut em­eralds, sprinkled with diamond brilliants. From the bottom tier a large gem in the shape of a teardrop dripped.

  “Yes.” C.C. traced a fingertip over it. “Yes, this is it.”

  Trent studied the drawing. If indeed such a piece did exist, and Lilah's drawing was anywhere close to scale, it would undoubtedly be worth a fortune.

  “Oh, my,” Coco murmured as the pad was passed to her. “Oh, my.”

  “I think Trent has a point.”. Amanda gave the sketch a hard look before handing it to Suzanna. “We can hardly take the house apart stone by stone, even if we wanted to. Despite any sort of paranormal ex­perience, the first order of business is to make cer­tain—absolutely certain,” she added when Lilah sighed, “that the necklace is a fact. Even eighty years ago, something like this had to cost an incredible amount of money. There has to be a record. If Lilah's famous vibes are wrong and it was sold again, there would be a record of that as well.”

  “Spoken like a true stick-in-the-mud,” Lilah com­plained. “I guess this means we spend our Sunday pushing through a paper mountain.”

  C.C. didn't even try to sleep. She wrapped herself in her flannel robe and, with the house creaking around her, left her room for Trent's. She could hear the murmur of the late news from Amanda's room. Then the hum of sitars from Lilah's. It didn't occur to her to feel awkward or to hesitate. She simply knocked on Trent's door and waited for him to an­swer.

  When he did, with his shirt open and his eyes a little sleepy, she felt her first frisson of nerves.
r />   “I need to talk to you.” She glanced toward the bed, then away. “Can I come in?”

  How was a man to deal fairly when even flannel had become erotic? “Maybe it would be better if we waited until morning.”

  “I'm not sure I can.”

  The knots in his stomach tightened. “Okay. Sure.” The sooner he explained himself to her, the better. He hoped. Trent let her in and closed the door. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “Too much nervous energy.” Hugging herself, she walked to the window. 'It stopped snowing. I'm glad. I know Suzanna was worried about some of her flow­ers. Spring's so unpredictable on the island.” She dragged a hand through her hair as she turned. “I'm making small talk, and I hate that.” A deep breath settled her. “Trent, I need to know what you think about tonight. Really think about it.”

  “Tonight?” he said carefully.

  “The séance.” She rubbed her hands over her face. “Lord, I feel like an imbecile even saying it, but, Trent, something happened.” Now she thrust those restless hands toward him, waiting for him to clasp them in his. “I'm very grounded, very literal minded. Lilah's the one who believes in all this stuff. But now...Trent, I need to know. Did you feel anything?”

  “I don't know what you mean. I certainly felt fool­ish several times.”

  “Please.” She gave his hands an impatient shake. “Be honest with me. It's important.”

  Isn't that what he'd promised himself he would do? “All right, C.C. Tell me what you felt.”

  “The air got very cold. Then it was as if some­thing—someone—was standing behind us. Behind and between the two of us. It wasn't something that frightened me. I was surprised, but not afraid. We were holding hands, like this. And then...”

  She was waiting for him to say it, to admit it. Those big green eyes demanded it. When he did so, it was with great reluctance. “It felt as though someone put a hand over ours.”

  “Yes.” Eyes closed, she brought his hands to her curved lips. “Yes, exactly.”

  “Shared hallucination,” he began, but she cut him off with a laugh.

  “I don't want to hear that. No rational explana­tions.” She pressed his hand to her cheek. “I'm not a fanciful person, but I know it meant something, something important. I know.”

  “The necklace?”

  “Only a part of it—and not this part. All the rest—the necklace, the legend, we'll figure it out sooner or later. I think we'll have to because it's meant. But this, this was like a blessing.”

  “C.C.—”

  “I love you.” Eyes dark and brilliant, she touched his cheek. “I love you, and nothing in my life has ever felt so right.”

  He was speechless. Part of him wanted to step back, smile kindly and tell her she was letting the moment run away with her. Love didn't happen in a matter of days. If it happened at all, which was rare, it took years.

  Another part, buried deep, wanted to hold her close so that the moment would never end.

  “Catherine—”

  But she was already moving into his arms. They seemed to be waiting for her. As if he had no control over them, they wrapped around her. The warmth, her warmth, seeped into him like a drug.

  “I think I knew the first time you kissed me.” She pressed her cheek to his. “I didn't want it, didn't ask for it, but it's never been like that for me before. I don't think I ever expected it to be. The,re you were, so suddenly, so completely in my life. Kiss me again, Trent. Kiss me now.”

  He was helpless to do otherwise. His lips were al­ready burning for hers. When they met, the fire only sparked hotter. She was molten in his arms, sending white licks of flame shooting through his system. When he couldn't prevent his demand from increas­ing, she didn't hesitate, but strained against him, of­fering everything.

  She slid her hands under his shirt, delighted to feel his quick, involuntary tremor. His muscles bunched under her fingers with the kind of strength she wanted, needed.

  The wind sighed outside the windows as she sighed in his arms.

  He couldn't get enough. He found himself wanting to devour her as his lips raced crazily over her face, down her throat where his teeth scraped lightly over her skin. The scent of honeysuckle wheeled in his head. She arched back, her low whimpers of pleasure pounding in his blood.

  He had to touch her. He would go mad if he didn't. Mad if he did. When he parted her robe, he groaned, discovering she was naked for him beneath. Desper­ate, he filled his hand with her.

  Now she knew what it was to have the blood swim. She could all but feel it racing under her skin, beating hot wherever he touched. There was a weakness here, a glorious one, mixed with a kind of manic strength. She wanted to give him both somehow and found the way when his mouth came frantically back to hers.

  She trembled even as she answered. She surren­dered even as she heated. As her head fell back and her fingers dug hard into his shoulders, he felt some­thing move through him that was more than desire, deeper than passion.

  Happiness. Hope. Love. As he recognized the feel­ings, terror joined them.

  Breath heaving, he pulled away.

  Her robe had fallen off one shoulder, baring it. Al­ready his mouth had supped there. Her eyes were as brilliant as the emeralds she had imagined. Smiling, she lifted a trembling hand to his cheek.

  “Do you want me to stay tonight?”

  “Yes—no.” Holding her at arm's length was the hardest thing he'd ever done. “Catherine...” He did want her to stay, he realized. Not just tonight, and not simply because of that glorious body of hers. The fact that he did made it all the more important to set things right. “I don't—I haven't been fair with you, and this has gotten out of hand so quickly.” A long, unsteady breath escaped him. “Lord, you're beautiful. No,” he said quickly when she smiled and started to step for­ward. “We need to talk. Just talk.”

  “I thought we had.”

  If she continued to look at him that way, he'd stop giving a damn about fairness. Or his own survival. “I haven't made myself clear,” he began slowly. “If I had known—if I had realized how completely inno­cent you are, I wouldn't—well, I hope I would have been more careful. Now I can only try to make up for it.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “No, that's the problem.” Needing some distance, he walked away. “I said I was attracted to you, very attracted. And that's obviously true. But I would never have taken advantage of you if I had known.”

  Suddenly cold, she drew the robe around her. “You're upset because I haven't been with a man before?”

  “Not upset.” Frustrated, he turned back. “'Upset' isn't the word. I can't seem to find one. There are rules, you see.” But she only continued to stare at him. “Catherine, a woman like you expects—de­serves—more than I can give you.”

  She lowered her gaze to her hands as she carefully fastened the belt to her robe. “What is that?”

  “Commitment. A future.”

  “Marriage.”

  “Yes.”

  Her knuckles were turning white. “I suppose you think this—what I said—is part of Aunt Coco's plans.”

  “No.” He would have gone to her then if he'd dared. “No, of course I don't.”

  “Well.” She struggled to make her fingers relax. “That's something, I suppose.”

  “I know your feelings are honest—exaggerated perhaps—but honest. And it's completely my fault. If this hadn't happened so quickly, I would have ex­plained to you from the first that I have no intention of marrying, ever. I don't believe that two people can be loyal to each other, much less happy together for a lifetime.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He stared at her. “Because it simply doesn't work. I've watched my father go from mar­riage to divorce to marriage. It's like watching a ten­nis match. The last time I heard from my mother, she was on her third marriage. It simply isn't practical to make vows knowing they'll only be broken.”

  “Practical,” she repeated with a sl
ow nod. “You won't let yourself feel anything for me because it would be impractical.”

  “The problem is I do feel something for you.”

  “Not enough.” Only enough to cut out her heart. “Well, I'm glad we got that sorted out.” Blindly she turned for the door. “Good night.”

  “C.C.” He laid a hand on her shoulder before she could find the knob.

  “Don't apologize,” she said, praying her control would hold a few more minutes. “It isn't necessary. You've explained it all perfectly.”

  “Damn it, why don't you yell at me? Call me a few of the names I'm sure I deserve.” He'd have preferred that to the quiet desolation he'd seen in her eyes.

  “Yell at you?” She made herself turn and face him. “For being fair and honest? Call you names? How can I call you names, Trent, when I feel so ter­ribly sorry for you?”

  His hand slipped away from her. She held her head up. Under the hurt, just under it, was pride.

  “You're throwing away something—no, not throwing,” she corrected. “You're politely handing back something you'll never have again. What you've turned out of your life, Trent, would have been the best part of it.”

  She left him alone with the uneasy feeling that she was absolutely right.

  There was a party tonight. I thought it would be good for me to fill the house with people and lights and flowers. I know that Fergus was pleased that I supervised all the details so carefully. I had wondered if he had noticed my distraction, or how often I walked along the cliffs these afternoons, or how many hours I have begun to spend in the tower, dreaming my dreams. But it does not seem so.

  The Greenbaums were here, and the McAllisters and the Prentises. Everyone who summers on the is­land, that Fergus feels we should take note of, at­tended. The ballroom was banked with gardenias and red roses. Fergus had hired an orchestra from New York, and the music was both lovely and lively. I be­lieve Sarah McAllister drank too much champagne, for her laugh began to grate on my nerves long before supper was served.

  My new gold dress suited very well, I think, for it gathered many compliments. Yet when I danced with Ira Greenbaum, his eyes were on my emeralds. They hung like a shackle around my neck.

  How unfair I am! They are beautiful, and mine only because Ethan is mine.

  During the evening, I slipped up to the nursery to check on the children, though I know how doting Nanny is to all of them. Ethan woke and sleepily asked iff had brought him any cake.

  He looks like an angel as he sleeps, he, and my other sweet babies. My love for them is so rich, so deep, that I wonder why it is my heart cannot transfer any of that sweet feeling to the man who fathered them.

  Perhaps the fault is in me. Surely that must be so. When I kissed them good-night and stepped out into the hall again, ! wished so desperately that rather than go back to the ballroom to laugh and dance, I could run to the cliffs. To stand at the cliffs with the wind in my hair and the sound and smells of the sea everywhere.

  Would he come to me then, if I dared such a thing? Would he come so that we would stand there together in the shadows, reaching out for something we have no business wanting, much less taking?

  I did not go to the cliffs. My duty is my husband, and it was to him I went. Dancing with him, my heart felt as cold as the jewels around my neck. Yet I smiled when he complimented me on my skill as a hostess. His hand at my waist was so aloof, but so possessive. As we moved to the music, his eyes scanned the room, approving what was his, studying his guests to be certain they were impressed.

  How well I know what status and opinion mean to the man I married. And how little it seems they have come to mean to me.

  I wanted to shout at him. “Fergus, for God's sake, look at me. Look at me and see. Make me love you, for fear and respect cannot be enough for either of us. Make me love you so that I will never again turn my steps toward the cliffs and what waits for me there,”

  But I did not shout. When he told me impatiently that it was necessary for me to dance with Cecil Barkley, I murmured my assent.

  Now the music is done and the lamps are snuffed out. I wonder when I will see Christian again. I won­der what will become of me.

  Chapter Seven

  C.C. sat cross-legged in the center of an ocean of papers. Her assignment—whether or not she'd chosen to accept it—had been to go through all of the notes and receipts and scraps that had been stuffed into three cardboard boxes marked miscellaneous.